


Leave a Note

by phipiohsum475



Series: Serial Suicides [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Suicide, intentional amiguity, johnlock if you squint, suicide note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John schedules his note, as a fail safe to show up on his blog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave a Note

**Author's Note:**

> Dark moods beget dark fics.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING - There is major depression and suicide in this fic. Please don't read if this bothers you. I like you, and I want you to be okay.
> 
> Not betaed nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly!) point out my errors!

**17 th December, 12:00 pm**

**My Note**

_“It’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”_

_He said that. When he made me watch. Why would he make me watch? It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore._

_Because this is my note._

_If this posts, then it’s too late. I’ve had this written for weeks now. I scheduled it to post each afternoon, and rescheduled it each morning when I failed to do what was necessary the night before. But it appears, if you are reading this, that I finally found the courage._

_If there’s an afterlife, I’m there with Sherlock now. If not, at least the hollow, aching pain of missing him has ceased. Either way, I’m better off than I was yesterday._

_I’m sorry to those of you I’ve left behind. Most of you._

_Harry – You can have anything and everything you want of mine. I’ve updated my will with Rodgers, the bloke who did Mum and Dad’s will. You can get a copy from him. Don’t use my death as an excuse to drink more, use it as an excuse to get better, yeah?_

_Mrs. Hudson – Don’t come upstairs. I don’t want you to see me this way. Call Lestrade, if he hasn’t called you first._

_Lestrade – I’ve forgiven you for your part in this. It’s only fair since you’ll have to clean up my mess. And in case you hadn’t already worked it out, I killed the cabbie in the serial suicide case. I did it to protect Sherlock, but I guess I failed him in the end._

_Mycroft – I will never forgive you. You can rot in hell._

_And that’s it. My note, my whole life, everything I have to impart at the end of my pathetic existence, is only just a few hundred words._

_I suppose it’s fitting._

_John_

-o-

* **ping** *

Lestrade heard the email chime and pushed away some files to find the phone buried underneath the avalanche on his desk. His caseload felt like it had tripled, but he knew it was just another example of how much he had relied on Sherlock. More cases went unsolved, and those they did solve took so much longer.

He found the device and checked his email with one hand as he took a large bite of the cold sandwich he held in the other.

_New Blog Post: John H Watson has posted a new blog: **My Note**_

Lestrade sighed a breath of relief. John was blogging again. That had to be a good thing. Probably only at the insistence of his nagging therapist, but progress none the less. He clicked on the link in the email.

“…I finally found the courage” were the last words he read as he leapt from his seat, the motion spinning the chair haphazardly into the wall behind him with a disgruntled clunk. The sandwich fell from his hand onto the floor, and he burst out the door and down the hall, ignoring Sally’s demands for information.

As he ran to his car, he dialed Mrs Hudson, praying she hadn’t seen the note, or worse, John. She picked up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Mrs Hudson, have you seen John today?” Lestrade tried to ask calmly, but his breathlessness betrayed him.

“No, Greg, dear. Is everything okay?” He’d insisted she call him Greg after the funeral, during the months when John still accepted his regular company.

“I don’t know. When’s the last you heard from him?”

“Well, there was an awful racket last night. I thought he might be having another one of his moods, you know.” John’s moods were beginning to be legendary. He destroyed almost everything he owned, the chair, his bedroom, the kettle he brewed his tea in, while the collection of Sherlock’s belongings were maintained with the devotion of a shrine.

“Shit. Don’t check on him. Don’t go up there, I’m on my way. Promise me.”

“Oh dear. I promise, Greg. Let me know.”

The tires squealed as Greg sped off to Baker St.

-o-

* **ping** *

Harry finished the last of her second Sea Breeze. Liquid lunches always seemed more acceptable in cocktail form; the stares less judgmental, and the juice counted as a food group, right?

She unlocked her phone and checked her email.

_New Blog Post: John H Watson has posted a new blog: **My Note**_

She rolled her eyes and put the phone down. John had been wallowing in self disgust and pity since that arsehole he called a flat mate up and offed himself. She didn’t think she needed to hear him ramble about the madman’s innocence, or worse, wax poetic about his life. John was so obviously enamored, and so obviously in denial.

But still, she’d check on him tonight after work. As much as she hated hearing about how brilliant, amazing, fantastic Sherlock was, he needed her, just to listen. Maybe a phone call, if the blog was still a tribute to that rude pompous prick. John needed to move on already. She decided against a last drink before heading to the office. John would know if she’d imbibed too much, and tonight’s call should be about his problems, not hers.

-o-

* **ping** *

Mycroft frowned. He recognized the tone; specific to an email account that tracked John’s blog. A new entry, then. But they’d agreed, he and Sherlock, that a visit to Baker St was acceptable, so long as no one knew just yet that Sherlock was still alive.

He pulled the phone out of its drawer and checked.

_New Blog Post: John H Watson has posted a new blog: **My Note**_

A posting, of that title, at exactly noon? A scheduled post then. A note. A suicide note, most likely. Mycroft fretted. If all was well, a nice of shock and surprise might have cause John to forget his suicide note time bomb, and Mycroft’s phone call would be most unappreciated. If Sherlock was late, he’d call when he was ready for John to be released from his care.

He didn’t enjoy the suspense; the odds in this scenario did not highly favor one outcome over the other. He never did care for uncertainty.

-o-

* **ping** *

The noise from his phone woke Sherlock from a fitful slumber. Red-rimmed eyes, puffy from tears, blearily gazed towards the noise, on the mantel by the skull. Never mind that then.

He lay on the couch, John wrapped still and limp in his arms. His back ached, his arms ached, but he wasn’t ready yet to let go.

Whoever it was, they could wait.

 

 


End file.
